


The Witch of November

by Freya_Kendra



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-09
Updated: 2011-10-09
Packaged: 2017-10-24 11:15:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freya_Kendra/pseuds/Freya_Kendra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the shores of Lake Michigan, Blair remembers a long-lost friend; to the strains of Gordon Lightfoot's "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Witch of November

* * *

Chilled and buffeted by the harsh winds, Blair Sandburg stood on a hill above the beach of a west coast that was very different from the one he'd grown to know as home. He watched the roiling water crash against the pier with all the force and the fury of primal nature, sending solid, white sprays to the top of the lighthouse's beacon. In another month those same sprays would begin to solidify, icing over to form magnificent sculptures no artist would ever be able to duplicate. In six months the pier would once again become accessible to fascinated tourists anxious to photograph the incredible views from the northwestern shores of Lake Michigan. But at that particular moment while Blair gazed outward, not even the bravest fool would consider setting foot on those slippery, wooden planks.

No, not a brave fool. Then what sort of fool?

* * *

 _The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down, of the big lake they called "Gitche Gumee."  
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead when the skies of November turn gloomy._

 _With a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty.  
That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed when the "Gales of November" came early._

* * *

Blair jumped when a firm hand landed on his shoulder. He turned to find Jim standing beside him.

"It's freezing out here, Chief," Jim shouted against the wind. "Let's go get a fire going."

Yeah. Blair had been thinking the same thing. He nodded, yet the lake seemed determined to hold him there. Looking back at the surging waves, he swallowed hard against the lump that had started to lodge itself into his throat, and then followed Jim back into the cabin.

"I don't know how you talked me into coming here," Jim said as he hung his coat on the hook by the door. "You're the one who was complaining about how cold it was in Detroit. Hell, that was practically tropical compared to this!"

Blair headed straight to the coffee maker. "You didn't exactly argue." Focusing on measuring the right amount of grounds and water, he was careful to avoid meeting his friend's gaze. "Besides, you're the one who said you wanted a little down-time before heading back to Cascade."

"Yeah. Down-time. A cabin by the lake, a little fishing. That kind of down-time."

"Jim, it's Lake Michigan, not some quiet, little inland lake. And it's November. What'd you expect?"

"I guess I expected it to feel like November, not February."

As the coffee began to brew, Blair heard the crackle of embers in the fireplace, signaling that Jim had also finished with his own self-appointed task. Blair wouldn't be able to avoid him for much longer.

"This is what November feels like out here," Blair offered while he scrounged around in the cupboards for two undamaged coffee mugs.

"Which makes it all the more confusing."

Yet Jim's very statement was confusing. Blair temporarily forgot his need for avoidance and turned a questioning eye on Jim.

"You hate the cold," Jim added in explanation. His searching, blue gaze seemed to amplify the icy wind outside. "So why here? Why now?"

Yeah. Why now? Blair sighed and turned away again. It was easier to give his full attention to the cupboards.

"*Now* is because we were already in Michigan." Blair threw the words over his shoulder and tried to infuse them with a carefree attitude he wished he could truly feel. "Why not take advantage and visit one of the wonders of the natural world?"

"Okay, I'd buy that." Jim answered, his easy-going attitude sounding far more believable than Blair's. "But there are five great lakes from what I remember. We were in Detroit for that conference. Both Huron and Erie are a lot closer to Detroit than Lake Michigan. And a lot warmer, I'm sure."

"But Lake Michigan is so much bigger." Blair hoped his forced smile would help him to sound more convincing though his back was still turned to his friend as he rinsed out the only mugs he could find, both of which were chipped in several places. "How could you come to Michigan and not visit *Lake* Michigan?"

Jim said nothing for a long while. Blair didn't even notice.

"Chief?"

Blair jumped for the second time that day as he suddenly found Jim standing at his shoulder.

"Talk to me, Sandburg."

"About what?"

Blair reached for the coffee pot, but Jim grabbed his hand.

"It's not finished brewing yet, Chief." Jim was still clutching Blair's hand in his own. "Come on, talk to me. What's this all about?"

Slowly, hesitantly, Blair allowed his eyes to meet his partner's determined gaze. With a small smile and a sigh to signal his resignation, he gave a little nod and then felt his smile grow in true relief.

"I was ... curious," Blair said finally.

"About?"

But how could he find the right words, the *best* words to tell his tale? The words were important. At least, they were important when they were meant to describe a man who'd been the best story-teller Blair had ever known.

Still searching his thoughts, Blair took a deep breath before deciding to plunge right in.

"When I was a kid," he began, "Naomi had this friend. You know," he shrugged. "Anyway, he was a folk singer. I remember him playing his guitar for us all the time. And there was one song in particular, the Edmund Fitzgerald one, the one Gordon Lightfoot did?"

Jim nodded. "I know it."

"When Joe sang that, it was like he was telling a story. I mean, I swear I could feel the storm and the waves, the whole thing. I even dreamed about the sailors."

* * *

 _The ship was the pride of the American side, coming back from some mill in Wisconsin.  
As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most, with a crew and good captain well seasoned._

 _Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms when they left fully loaded for Cleveland.  
And later that night when the ship's bell rang could it be the north wind they'd been feelin'?_

* * *

"That song was about Lake Superior, wasn't it?" Jim interrupted Blair's reverie.

"Yeah. But Joe was from around here. He used to talk about all the lakes, Lake Michigan in particular. He grew up on the water, and he told such great stories, it was almost like I was right there next to him the whole time."

* * *

 _The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound, and a wave broke over the railing.  
And every man knew, as the captain did too, 'twas the witch of November come stealin'._

 _The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait when the Gales of November came slashin'.  
When afternoon came it was freezin' rain in the face of a hurricane west wind._

* * *

Focusing his thoughts on the visions Joe's stories had brought to him, Blair was barely aware of Jim leading him to the couch. Seemingly in an instant, he was in front of a roaring fire, studying the flames and relishing the warm cup in his hands.

"So, whatever happened to this Joe?" Jim asked.

Drawn once again toward the crashing waves beyond, Blair let his gaze move back to the window. "He, uh..." Mere words. They could never say enough. Still, they mattered. They had to be spoken. Blair cleared his throat and took a sip of coffee. "He went home. Back to Michigan. Back here. We wrote to each other for a while though. But then one day I got a letter from someone else, a friend of his. It was November, I remember that."

* * *

 _When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck sayin'"Fellas, it's too rough to feed ya."  
At Seven P.M. a main hatchway caved in', he said "Fellas, it's been good t'know ya"_

 _The captain wired in he had water comin' in, and the good ship and crew was in peril.  
And later that night when its lights went outta sight came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald._

* * *

"You know that pier out there?" Blair asked his friend.

Jim just nodded.

"Joe was not a fool, I can tell you that."

Clearly on alert from the odd signals Blair knew he was sending him, Jim cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. Yet he said nothing. He simply waited for Blair to finish his story.

"He wouldn't just...," Blair shook his head. "Not even a fool would be stupid enough to walk out onto that pier on a day like today, right?"

"It would be suicide." Jim answered, still on alert, perhaps more than before.

"Yeah it would. So why'd he do it?" Blair's eyes began to water. He was shaking his head, absolutely dumbfounded, as he met Jim's eyes once more. "Why would he do it? They said he was washed off the pier. He was swept out into the lake. And they never even found him. He was just ... gone."

* * *

 _Does anyone know where the love of God goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours?  
 The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay if they'd put fifteen more miles behind 'er._

 _They might have split up or they might have capsized; they may have broke deep and took water.  
And all that remains are the faces and the names of the wives and the sons and the daughters._

* * *

"Are you sure that wasn't just a story?" Jim, the detective, asked. "Just a way to allow him to disappear?"

Blair shrugged. "I don't know. But if that were the case, why should anyone even bother to write me? He could've disappeared easily enough without having to give a kid like me any sort of explanation."

* * *

 _Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings in the rooms of her ice-water mansion.  
Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams; her islands and bays are for sportsmen._

 _And farther below Lake Ontario takes in what Lake Erie can send her.  
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know with the Gales of November remembered._

* * *

"He was important to you." Jim stated the obvious.

"Yeah, he was. And I think I was important to him, too. I thought I was. I don't know. I just... I could never imagine that he would want anyone to tell me something like that if it weren't true. Yet part of me wanted that to be the case, to know he was still alive. I just... I don't know. I never wanted to believe either story."

Blair looked out the window one more time. "Why would he do it, Jim? Why would he walk out onto a pier like that?"

Jim shook his head sadly. "I'm afraid you'll never find the answer to that, Chief."

"I just thought that maybe coming here.... I don't know what I thought, Jim." He gave his friend a frustrated smile.

"You came here to remember someone who obviously deserves to be remembered."

Blair's smile turned genuine. "Yeah," he nodded. "Yeah, I guess I did."

"To Joe," Jim raised his mug and clicked it against Blair's.

"To Joe," Blair answered, feeling strangely calmed by the gesture. Maybe the fire was starting to thaw his chilled bones, but somehow he knew it was more than that.

He cast a different look at the waves this time, one borne out of respect and acceptance. Then he gave his attention back to Jim, to the man who was filling his life with experiences that far outshined even the best of Joe's stories.

"Hey, Jim?" He said after a moment. "Thanks."

With one more toast with chipped coffee mugs, Blair finally found himself able to say good-bye to a man he'd lost long ago.

* * *

 _In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed, in the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral.  
The church bell chimed till it rang twenty-nine times for each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald._

 _The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down of the big lake they call Gitchee Gumee.  
"Superior", they said, "never gives up her dead when the 'Gales of November' come early!"_

* * *

~ end ~

 


End file.
